Early hands-on learning

AS: The reasons behind the growing number of new practices in Switzerland are multiple and touch on different aspects of Swiss society. From my personal experience, one factor is the way the education system is structured. My journey as an architect began quite early—I started working as a draughtsman around the age of 15, joining an office and completing an apprenticeship. By the time I was 19, I had learned how to build a house from start to finish, and it became clear to me that I wanted to focus on building and experimenting. I’m not sure how many other countries offer the opportunity to learn the profession so early. In Switzerland, this hands-on approach seems more common than elsewhere, and it has a strong influence on how young architects develop their practice.

MJ: That’s certainly one reason, and I would add the abundance of resources and investments, which make the Swiss context very healthy—there are projects and opportunities at all scales. Even in the private sector, many people are building personal houses, which also plays a role. Additionally, the Swiss culture of competitions is central: anyone can enter a competition and win, without needing extensive prior experience.

AS: I’m also thinking about Portugal—being originally from there, it’s natural to make a comparison. The economic situation in Portugal is very different, but I would say that this new wave of practices could happen there as well. So, it’s not just a Swiss phenomenon; it feels generational, perhaps even across Europe. The youngest generations really want to build and contribute firsthand. As for money, I don’t think it’s the main concern, at least at the beginning of a career—they find other ways to make it work. That was our experience too: in the first five years, we couldn’t earn much, so we found ways to practice architecture and survive while gaining experience. For example, Marie-Luce taught at EPFL for six years while practicing, which helped pay the bills.

MJ: Teaching in Switzerland is an advantage: Compared to other countries, it’s relatively well paid, which is important because it allows you to practice alongside it. At the same time, it brings a certain precariousness—you often work 40–50% of the time, which isn’t enough to live on, but it still pays better than in many other countries. What’s particularly valuable is being involved in the academic system, where research, teaching, and architectural discussions intersect. It brings energy, connections, and experience. In the early stages, it’s sufficient to get by, especially since you’re used to living like a student. This is probably one of the reasons why many architects in Switzerland start their own practices so early.

AS: I think it’s a generational shift. Our generation wants to work more independently, whereas the previous one had to spend five or ten years in a firm because that was the norm. We simply feel differently.

The risk of independence

MJ: After studying at EPFL, I went to Zurich to work. From day one, I knew it wasn’t for me. Even though the architecture produced there is amazing, with an exceptionally high level of quality, I realised very quickly that I wanted to pursue my own architecture. I was still a student, and I remember telling my parents in the first week, “I’m going to learn German, I’ll see what it’s like to work in a big office, but I know I want to be an architect.” Soon after came a dual opportunity: working on a project for my family and the chance to teach at EPFL. I taught a studio project in the master’s program, and after two years, I worked with Marco Bakker and Alexandre Blanc at BABL. It was interesting to teach and practice at the same time. At first, it was a bit of a challenge because every time I taught a project to students, I had to reflect on my own practice—on how I approach architecture, how I develop projects, and what they reveal about me. It was a bit of a learning curve, but it gave me the courage to start my own practice.

AS: I also studied in Zurich at ETH, but we both met in Lausanne. Since then, I had the feeling it was the place to be in Switzerland. Ticino was big in the ‘80s and ‘90s, Basel in the 2000s, and Zurich was booming. But it reached a point where Zurich became crowded with architects, making it not so strategic to open a practice there. Lausanne is a great place to be. You can focus on your work without constantly comparing yourself to others. Plus, it’s central in the French part of Switzerland—within an hour, you can reach the Alps, Geneva, and Fribourg. 

I spent wonderful years at ETH, studying with Christian Kerez and Smiljan Radić. Both are very independent, and I felt that was the path I wanted. Yet, I decided to leave Zurich and return to Lausanne—a decision that was also quite risky. I didn’t have many friends or projects or money, but I had a lot of motivation. When you’re motivated, things slowly fall into place. It was 2017 when I graduated, and three months later, I moved back to my parents' house, tried some competitions, did small projects, and gained experience. Then, we met and began collaborating on projects. Little by little, we started to refine our approach to competitions, occasionally earning some prizes. We aimed to propose something interesting, but often we weren’t precise enough, made mistakes, or were simply too naive. In 2023, however, we won a competition for a school just north of Lausanne. It’s a major project, and since then, we’ve learned so much—every day brings something new.

MJ: It wasn’t easy at all. Before we won the competition, we seriously considered quitting. It was a real rollercoaster. We had one project under construction, but it wasn’t enough to support both of us. In parallel with small commissions and competitions, we began working on a few family projects. Those connections helped us get by, but it wasn’t enough to live on. To truly establish yourself, you need to enter the competition system—and win. Competitions pay for your work, and the Swiss public system, guided by SIA standards, ensures fair compensation. That support is crucial. Once you win your first competition, it opens doors to more competitions—and more projects.

Building local

AS: At every scale, our projects begin by looking at available resources and asking the right questions. For instance, if we want to build a small pavilion in the garden using wood, we ask: What kind of wood? Where does it come from? Does it involve local artisans? And we realised first-hand that we could make things that are truly local. A few months ago, we visited a brick factory. We knew about it, but we hadn’t realised that just five minutes from Lausanne, there is a factory producing all of Switzerland’s bricks using earth sourced directly from its surroundings. We always assume materials come from places like Italy or Germany, but this was a great example of local production. 

MJ: What’s particularly interesting about starting with small projects is that they move faster than larger ones, offering the chance to experiment with local materials and techniques. You may be working on more projects at once, but the process remains the same, regardless of scale. You still need to reflect on the same questions—the materials, the site, and what you are building. 

We’ve worked on several projects in historic contexts, where the central question becomes: how do we create architecture of today—of 2025—while respecting its relationship with the past? Storytelling helps here; if you can tell a story, it becomes easier to communicate with clients. This narrative dimension is essential for us, and we strive to weave it into every project, whether large or small.

AS: Exactly—and this is reinforced by the fact that we come from Fribourg, a region of Switzerland deeply rooted in tradition. People here are very proud of their landscape, their heritage. Our clients might not wake up every morning thinking about it, but they are proud of the traditions. This interest in local culture came naturally with our clients—they were the ones convincing us, not the other way around.

MJ: It’s very different to build in a city where you don’t need to reflect on those things. But when you're in the countryside, it’s a very direct question because people are proud of what they have. They don’t want the city to invade their rural space. So, it forces you to connect to the materiality, culture, and tradition in a very different way. You have to integrate these elements in a meaningful way. The aspect of reuse, which we find very relevant and in tune with our times, feels more like an urban reflex—a responsibility of the city. In the countryside, the focus shifts instead to working with local materials.

Material honesty

AS: For us, reusing materials is simply a tool. We could make a building entirely from reused materials, but it always depends on the project, the client, and the budget. Unfortunately, that’s not always possible, and sometimes you have to combine materials and make compromises. Even in Switzerland, only a few offices can fully implement this approach right now—but it’s evolving quickly. For example, the first pavilion we built was small, low-budget, and quite basic. The client was open to using wood, and we combined materials in a way that made sense for the project.

MJ: It was a very small wooden pavilion in a private residential area, and we were able to use materials from a nearby pergola that had been sitting unused for 20 years. 

AS: The structure was light steel, and they never used it because it wasn’t covered and was too windy. So, we took those steel elements, disassembled them, and reused them as foundations. We used what we needed and then gave the rest to a local farmer to use for other things. It made sense to us at the time, and it still does.

AS: The goal isn’t about achieving 100%, 80%, or even 10% reuse—it’s about being open to it. This is our generation’s responsibility: to explore these possibilities and push people in the right direction. If the client is interested, we go all in. That’s our role as architects—to guide and convince, because if we wait for others to provide the answers, it will never happen.

MJ: Materiality is central, whether it’s new, reused, or a combination of both. If it’s wood, it’s natural wood; if it’s rammed earth, it’s rammed earth. If there’s concrete, we show it. We don’t hide anything. We like to show how things are assembled and how we combine materials, which I think reflects our generation’s focus on low-tech buildings. It’s not a trend for everyone, but for many of us, it’s about going back to simpler, more sustainable methods. For a century, technology has advanced, making buildings more complex. But now, we’re interested in building with less technology, less materiality, and still doing it well.

AS: And that’s a challenge because you have to go against the norms and the established rules. The norms in Switzerland are very strong, and there’s a sort of lobbying around them. So it’s not easy to break away from that. But for us, it’s a motivation—to do more with less, to build with fewer resources and techniques, and still create something great.

AS: The interesting part of this approach is that we don’t have many references. Some exist, but they’re mostly related to construction. It’s exciting to be involved in this moment of exploration. In 10 years, we’ll probably look back and see a difference. That’s something we really enjoy.

Pushing boundaries

AS: In 2025, we entered a competition to design a new building for the University of Geneva’s Faculty of Mathematics and Physics, combining laboratories, offices, and public spaces on a central, historic site.

MJ: It was an open competition, with the first round open to everyone. Then, they selected 12 projects for the second round. It was huge, working with a multidisciplinary team for about 10 months. 

AS: One of the main challenges was managing space: how to fit such a large programme into a limited number of square meters. Being in the centre of Geneva, there was virtually no space left, and our initial question was, “How can we add more square meters?” Eventually, we found a solution and decided to base our design on a wooden structure—an uncommon choice for a tall building. Concrete works well and offers many possibilities, but we also have a strong interest in working with wood.

MJ: The main challenge with building in wood is its physics—how to keep the building comfortable. In winter, heating is straightforward, but in summer, cooling is more difficult. In Switzerland, public buildings generally aren’t allowed to use air conditioning, except for specific programs, so we had to find alternative ways to manage temperature. Wood alone isn’t ideal; materials like stone or concrete offer better thermal mass. We needed a skilled engineer and a lot of experimentation to find solutions. In the end, we used a mixed slab—wood and concrete—minimising the concrete to 10–12 centimetres: just enough to help refresh the space, regulate winter heat, and stabilise the towers.

AS: So, we designed the windows and openings to control direct sunlight and combined numerous small elements, each carefully calculated and modulated. Nothing is overly complex, yet it’s still fascinating how everything comes together. The ground floor required cooling, since we couldn’t open the windows, but everywhere else relied on natural ventilation, which was sufficient to keep the space comfortable.

The building is surrounded by small structures, which influenced how we approached the design. We didn’t want to overshadow the street or the historical buildings next to us. The challenge was finding a balance and deciding how high we could go without overpowering the context.

AS: Another challenge was addressing this programme from the perspective of 2025. Our architecture needs to be flexible enough to adapt over time. This is a key aspect for us—maximising space while allowing the building to transform and evolve. The jury really liked our approach; they were interested in whether it was possible to build an entire tower in wood. The answer is “Yes, it’s possible,” but doing so comes with constraints.

MJ: Our proposal was perhaps too risky, pushing boundaries with the wooden structure, and that might have influenced the jury’s decision. 

AS: The winning project didn’t have that issue; it was more flexible than ours. That’s a key difference. I totally understand why the jury favoured the other design—it was more straightforward. But, as we said, as a new generation, we need to make bold moves, to propose projects like this, confront ideas, and push the conversation forward. Things are moving fast now. When we first started entering competitions in 2018-2019, it felt slow, but now it’s crazy how fast things are changing. The interest in this kind of architecture is growing. In Switzerland, there’s a real call for this approach. For us, this is more than just architecture—it’s political too. We were taught to be aware of environmental issues, even in primary school. We were taught to recycle, to care about the planet.

MJ: We see that in teaching, too. For the past 10 years, this has been at the centre of discussions. When we started, architecture was all about the big "A," about form. Now, that’s changing. The new generation, including young architects we work with, wants to make a difference. It’s important to set an example and demonstrate change, and we are willing to take risks when necessary—even in a competition where we invested so much time and effort, fully aware of what was at stake.

We have to make sense of what we’re doing. But we also don’t have a choice. We need to react to the context, to adapt. It’s not easy for young architects, because there’s often a conflict with the older generation, who work differently. That’s the hardest part—working with two generations who have different interests. We still live and work together, but we’re in different phases—form vs. function, for example. And we’re thinking, maybe we should start from another point.

AS: Let me give you an example. Right now, we’re working on a competition for a school in a town that’s growing rapidly—it's not quite a city, but it’s no longer a village. This school has been there for decades, and the buildings are a mix of different styles. The last one, built in 2000, is by a star architect. While it looks good, it’s strange, and now they need to expand because the population is growing. The common solution is to demolish some buildings and replace them with something more functional. But that’s not what we do. We’ll think carefully before demolishing anything. If it works, we’ll keep it. The building has been maintained well, and it’s still functional. This is what our generation thinks about—preserving and adapting what already works. If we make that decision, the jury will understand that our answer to the project is meaningful. But if the jury or the client doesn’t share that perspective, it’s hard to convince them. Still, this is the way we do things.